


It Happened One Fete

by abolaba



Category: Call the Midwife
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:28:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27333418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abolaba/pseuds/abolaba
Summary: Just a little one-shot role reversal.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 4





	It Happened One Fete

Her heart aches for the poor wee boy standing partnerless, holding the green ribbon, glancing every which way. It isn’t fair. He’s too young to always have to share his father with the people of Poplar, too young to always have to accept disappointment. Too young. She takes a deep breath and walks towards the racers with a quiet determination. Nevermind she will look ridiculous, a nun in a three-legged race! She simply cannot stand the look of defeat on that child’s face. 

As she approaches, so does another figure from the opposite direction. Dr. Turner is running and calling to Timothy who smiles exuberantly at the appearance of his Dad. Sister Bernadette smiles too as she slowly backs into the crowd waiting to cheer on the racers. He made it! She feels such a warm sense of relief and happiness and the familiarity in it startles her. But she reminds herself, as she seems to be doing quite a lot lately, that her emotional investment in those two particular humans is simply her vocation and Christianity at work. Never mind she feels no such connection to anyone else. Never mind the fluttering in her heart whenever she sees Dr. Turner. Or hears his voice. Or thinks of him. 

The gun blasts and the race begins. She laughs a little at the awkward shuffle of the participants. A pair stumbles and falls just off the mark. But they laugh as they scramble to get up. Everyone is smiling and the Doctor and his son most of all, especially when, with yards to go, they shoot ahead of the others. Sister Bernadette finds herself clapping, even jumping up and down as father and son stumble and fall just beyond the finish line. They won. 

She is there at their feet before she knows what she is doing. “You won!” She says joyfully. Timothy is beaming and looking around, apparently anxious to join his friends. Dr. Turner is also beaming, but his gaze is focused and intent on her. She feels her cheeks warm. She reaches for the green tie around their legs, but catches herself and pulls back. Her cheeks burn deeper as she watches Dr. Turner untie the ribbon and release Timothy into the crowd to find his friends. 

“You hurt your hand.” She says. A bright right splotch of blood adorns his palm. He takes his eyes from her to glance at the wound. 

“Ah.” He says and with a slight smile adds, “I’m sure there’s no need to amputate. If you’ll excuse me.” And he is off, heading briskly towards the parish hall and no doubt antiseptic and a bandage.

She looks around her, a bit befuddled by the interaction, though she can’t explain why. She glances back at his retreating form, watches as he enters the parish hall and the door closes behind him. She pictures him rummaging through the cupboards for supplies, trying to keep blood from dripping on the counters. She thinks of the kind and patient way he sees each one of his patients. So much care and attention for others. But who is there to care for and attend to his wounds? 

Again, her feet are moving before the thought has fully formed in her brain. She will simply pop her head in, ask the doctor if he requires any assistance. He will most assuredly say he does not and she willd retreat. But at least he will know that someone asked. Someone cares.

When she steps into the kitchen of the Parish hall, her eyes land on Dr. Turner leaned down to rinse his hand from the tap. 

“Let me help you with that.” She says softly. He straightens rapidly at the sound of her voice. He glances quickly down at the cut on his hand and back at Sister Bernadette. But before he can reply,before he can brush her off, insisting it is nothing he can’t handle (and of course it isn’t! He is the doctor for crying out loud) she turns to search the cupboard for antiseptic and cotton swabs. She doesn’t pause to think why she wants this so much, to help him so much, to touch him so much.

She sets the box from the cupboard on the counter, and facing Dr. Turner, she holds out her hand to him, silently instructing him to place his in her own. And he does. His hand is warm and so much larger than hers. They are standing quite close. She feels her breaths slow and deepen, knowing instinctively that he is watching her closely. Softly she begins to touch his palm with the fingers on her left hand, lightly caressing near the wound. But she has no thought for disinfecting, for assessing the need for stitches. She only feels the warmth from his hand in hers. She only feels the warmth in her heart towards him, this good, kind, hard-working man. Her addled brain can focus on nothing but the consuming truth pulsing through her in that moment; I love him. I love him. I love him. 

That pulse of love and no other thought is what leads her to lower her head, to slowly bring his hand to her face and her mouth to his palm. She kisses his hand. It is only an instant, just a spark and then she pulls abruptly away from him. She shakes her head. She meets his wide eyes and utters, 

“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” What has she done?

“Sister…” He tries to speak but she shuts her eyes tight. Oh, what has she done? He takes a step towards her and places a hand on her arm. She pulls away from him and turns around to face the doorway, her back to him. 

“That was unforgivable.” She says, her voice dangerously close to a sob.

“There is nothing to forgive.” His voice is so calm, so kind. She feels the tears begin to sting at the corners of her eyes. She brings her hand up to wipe them. 

“Perhaps...” He begins and clears his throat. “Perhaps I shouldn’t be saying this, but… I wish… if things were different … Sister Bernadette, could you please turn and look at me?”

She shakes her head. No. She cannot look at him. Not now. It would undo her. She takes a deep shaky breath and answers him. “I’m not turning away from you because of you. It’s because of God.” 

A few moments pass in silence until with quiet emotion he responds, “If I didn’t accept that, I wouldn’t deserve to live.” 

The tears are flowing freely now and she knows she must leave before this torrent of emotion completely overtakes her. Without another word, she steps out through the doorway. Away from him.


End file.
